


We Saved Each Other

by irodeanOstrich (facemyJam)



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: AU about soulmarks, F/M, Oops, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, and i did say AU, and i realize thats not the general consensis, and the others - Freeform, i tried to put into words how i see her, mentions of Stark, so nat might be slight ooc, the first thing they say to you kind of mark, vague though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-18
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-02-26 03:42:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2636702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/facemyJam/pseuds/irodeanOstrich
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clintasha Soulmates/Soulmarks AU<br/>The thoughts of Nat and Clint as they consider the words etched onto their skin.<br/>feat. Nat struggling with overcoming herself and Clint trying to become the man he wants to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "I said you're holding back"

**Author's Note:**

> So as I put in the tags (thought I don't know if you read them) Natasha might be slight OOC on account of me portraying her as I saw her and feel she is. Now that I think about it, Clint might be OOC as well considering it was kind of hard to get into his mindset because I never really read the comics, this is just my mishmash knowledge I gathered from Avengers and my own headcannons for him. Also, remember this is an AU, so I mixed things up and left some stuff out, mostly on purpose, but some by accident since I'm no great expert on this. It just sort of popped into my head and ran away from me.  
> Also also, the chapter titles and Natashas words to Clint are from Walk the Moons' Shut Up and Dance.  
> Alsox3, i may have used too many italicized words, but if you won't say anything, then neither will i.
> 
> oh, almost forgot, not beta'd so all mistakes are mine

**_“Shame your mark has no taste in women who look adorable and just the right amount of lonely so a suave and sophisticated gentleman will ‘whisk her away from it all’. Suppose I’ll have to make do for now, eh?”_ **

 

She didn’t know what exactly made her feel hopeful about those words. Maybe the way he didn’t call her sexy or beautiful like many of her countless prey before. Maybe it had to do with the fact that the words encompassed her entire body, spread out from underneath her left ear to swirl around her neck and hid beneath her right breast for a pause, then traveled down her ribcage to encircle her right thigh, winding down until it touched the inside of her ankle in an almost intimate way to her. Maybe it was the obvious playful tone that seemed to have a hidden meaning but escaped her. Maybe it was that she was the only one to know exactly the shape of those words on her body, that this was the one thing she truly had for herself that could never be taken away, not by anyone. Maybe it was the invisible shackles tying her to this place, the scars she puts on her skin almost deliberately as she fights, mars the one thing she can control—her body. Maybe, _maybe_ she feels just as trapped as she really, _truly_ is, sees the path ahead of her crumbling until all that is left is a cliff and suddenly she’s falling falling _failing_. And maybe the hope she was feeling was only fear in disguise. Fear that the person who would speak to her like this would pry open the metal doors she built around the memories that she has to- _has to_ \- bury _or else_. Or maybe it’s the fear that the exact opposite will happen, that _she_ will be the one to open those cast iron doors, to hand him the shovel and tell him to _dig_.

 

\--

 

Every time she is at some gala or another the dread that fills her insides always threatens to burst out, to explode out of her until her outsides and insides are indistinguishable and the only thing that is clear is her horrible, appalling dread. Her training always seems to take a second to kick in when someone approaches her that is not backup nor her mark, and she honestly stopped questioning why some of her marks are ordered to die and why most are given a ‘intel only’ label. It might seem backwards, but in her logic, but she would rather _kill_ her marks than _‘love’_ them. _Kill_ because they are no longer of use, but _‘love’_ for a million and one reasons, to get a key card, passwords, sabotage, access, favours, money, jewels, land grants, company patents-just to name the few that she has done over the years. Maybe the fact that _‘love’_ was a long con, took time, patience, precious time away from _looking_ —not that she would admit to looking, because she could never get those shackles off, not ever.

 

In fact – and she hates to _hates to_ admit this fact—she dreads _finding_. Finding her rank, finding her mark, finding herself trapped, finding no way out, finding comfort in routine, finding the one thing she wants to hate, aches to hate, is programmed _against_ finding. And maybe if she realized that there were different _kinds_ of Soulmates—one word with a capital ‘S’—then this dread would have vanished and she would not have taken the long way to where she was supposed to be (but maybe deep where she refuses to look, she detoured on purpose, tried to put off the inevitable for the exact reason she wanted to run towards it, and maybe if _he_ was the only one who _got it_ , well, she was the only one who knew how _that_ felt). But when she eventually realized what she had, just who exactly she had that with, that ledger she kept buried deep, soon no longer weighed on her. That, over time, it would blink out of existence, no shoveling for her _or_ him.

 

\--

 

The type of love she had with Clint was different, not the _‘love’_ she was used, nor the love she believed existed. It was constantly changing, always in flux, a solid one minute then it would expand to a gaseous state, and it would _always_ feel natural, no matter the form. When she needed _wanted_ a partner, Clint was that for her. Her steady rock companion who, depending on the situation, either was the poster boy of professionalism, or the crack shot with a litany of bad puns. When she needed something _more_ , the feel of someone else on her skin, the smell of some _thing_ else to distract her, Clint was what she needed. Fast and rough, the clash of teeth on teeth, nail and bite marks anywhere _every_ where, the constant _together-apart_ rhythm that they found all on their own that made her feel _safe_. Slow, so incredibly slow that they seem to create their own gravity, chaste kisses that _burn_ , hands massaging aching muscles, massaging hands, massaging, the slow exchange of the _there-not there_ rhythm that falls into place and makes her feel _grounded_.

 

That doesn’t mean that they don’t fight, though the way they explode and pull apart is just as different as their love—as many like to point out much to her annoyance. She was always a silent brooder, never one to show much emotion (her spy training is still very much a part of herself), so she would just pull away, go quiet, leave their shared space and retreat within herself. Clint – as an agent himself—never really discharged his anger either, but he was more verbal. Clint would want to talk about _why_ they were fighting, would want to hash it out and have with it. When he got really mad, as rare as Stark eating an actual full meal, he started to leave off _saying_ and start _signing_. That was when she would apologize, which made him even madder because he didn’t want her to just _say_ she was sorry, he wanted her to _understand exactly what went wrong_ , “Because maybe sometimes ** _I_** am the one at fault and saying that you’re sorry every time we fight isn’t helping _you_!”

 

Clint once got so mad he turned red and she thought he was going to pass out from all the blood rushing to his head. He knew—vaguely—what happened to her back _then_ , and when something went wrong with them, imperfect and completely hers _them_ , she had the tendency to blame herself, because _clearly_ she was the one who was broken inside and out, not Clint. Clint, whose words got her through storm after storm after nightmare. And did he see her scars? Had he seen how jaded and jaunted she truly was? There was a strong fighter deep within her that ran to her core, the one that got her through _every_ mission, _every_ capture and escape, one who was a brave and confident woman that would _always_ have a part of the Widow no matter what, but there was another one there. One that was cowed, meek, the insecure little girl who had **_no_** chance of growing up; _this_ was the one who _always_ emerged whenever they fought.

 

And he would try to help her, to hold that scared little girls hand, to be her shoulder to cry on, to be her outlet when she needed to scream at the cruel, unjust world. Clint didn’t deny either parts of her, which just made her feel even more… _more_. More scared that he would leave, more terrified that she would mess this up, _them_ up, more love for the man that Clint was, more anger that, try as she might, she could _not_ express all that she was feeling, just _more_. And Clint, bless him, was patient with her. He realized that she needed space **and** a watchful eye all at once.

 

He also realized that, most of the time, she just didn’t know _what_ she wanted. What she _was_.

 

\--

 

On her bad days, the ones that took too long, the ones that got under her skin, into her veins and clogged her heart, they would away to one of their safe houses. Clint would take out his hearing aids; she would leave her weapons and back-up weapons (and back-up _back-up_ weapons) at home—which was a moot point seeing as how the safe house had a hidden cache, practically a _treasure trove_ of weapons (the meaning was clear to both of them, though). He would put on an old record, one that played music neither of them knew, slow songs that they swayed to. She would hum the tune in his ear on the softer songs, and he would prop her feet up on his and _dance_.

 

They wouldn’t pretend to be anywhere, no big parties or important galas. They would just close their eyes and relax to the best of their abilities. And if Clint’s hearing aids were within arm reach and she ‘forgot’ a hidden knife, well, that was their secrets.

 

 _[On the rare occasions where she got caught on the job working for S.H.I.E.L.D and she was tortured for information,_ **this** _is where she would retreat to. She would smell the faint damp of_ cold _that seemed to stick even in the middle of a summer heatwave; she would hear the scratch of the Phonographs white noise as the next song slowly came to life; she would feel the span of Clint’s back as he moved their joined arms slowly to turn, would feel the crinkle of his shirt as she clenched and then unclenched her fist, trying to forget the days pains. It was her safe place, where just she and Clint were, where he was all_ **hers _._**

_In the dark of a random night after a slow_ needing _, Clint once confessed that that was where he went too, if and when he was ever caught. That he would smell the of her mixed with the scent of the wood paneling everywhere; that he would hear the faint scuffling of his feet as they dragged with the weight of carrying another body; that he would feel the soft vibrations rolling through his chest as she hummed to him, sometimes a different tune to the one on record, would feel the small curve of her back and think her small, but in no way_ **not** _capable of becoming something bigger. And he had to wipe away her tears as she listened because he saw her as infinite when she could barely see her end.]_


	2. "This Woman is My Destiny"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint's POV Finally, right?  
> Sorry about this folks, i had to transfer this to my new laptop, only, the keyboard sucks, so i put it off for a while because i lacked the motivation D: oops

_**“Shut up and dance with me.”**_  
  
  
He found her in the crowd, a mingler who had yet to mingle, and then he saw it, the way she angled herself _just right_ so the room was in full view—like he had done—the way her eyes tracked a specific man without actually _looking_ at him. He supposed he wouldn’t have _really_ known for sure if she was an operative or not if it weren’t for her back. She was in a backless black number that did wonders for her figure, too bad she happened to have _flashed_ herself, in a sense that one of her throwing knives glinted off the lighting. He tensed and she tensed, both relaxing at the same time, which made him feel brave enough to go up to her. Well, _that_ , and also the fact that her mark had yet to lay his eyes on her.

  
He said his line about her mark, she took his arm and the next thing he knew, they were dancing. He goes to open his mouth to ask why she was moving so fast, but then his face felt hot, as if the words she were saying were burning themselves onto his skin, which he supposed they were seeing as how she was his Soulmate. He looked deep in her eyes and saw the two of them together, making the most of the fucked up world they lived in, and if that weren’t for her next words he would have blown his mission. She looked shaken herself, as if she were talking herself into calmness. It was then and there that he knew he was fucked, her little eyebrow furrow had him fucked to Tuesday, that was how far gone he was.

  
Then the comms came to life, crackling in his ear in a way he hated, and just like that, they parted, her to seduce a man, and him to extract one. On the helicopter ride home he put his head in his hands and lightly stroked the words, his mind reliving the way they burned across his face. Wait ‘til S.H.I.E.L.D learned that his Soulmate was an assassin for hire, just his luck.

  
\--

  
If anyone were to see where exactly his mark was, they would have laughed until they were red in the face and would be doing that wheezy laugh where you can’t really control if you snort or not, you know, the natural laugh. He was always saying thanks to whoever made Soulmarks a private thing because he could not handle the constant laughter—which was unfortunate seeing as how he was a Carny for most of his childhood. _Because he had these godforsaken words stamped across his face._ His face! He really hated them sometimes, too, just because they were so short and, well, they were off center and that just might have bugged him more than anything else, god help him.

  
 The ‘d’s from ‘and’ and ‘dance’ were separated by the bridge of his nose, not even an inch between them. The ‘shut up’ part was longer than the ‘with me’ part so it always left him feeling sort of sideways, like he was leaning more towards his right than his left, like it was a psychosomatic lean or something. It was weird, but he actually couldn’t wait for this girl to turn to him and tell him this, if only because he wanted to see if she was smiling at whatever he said to her, or if he said something to piss her off. Hopefully it was the former because if not then this girl would scare the bejeezus out of him. Although he had a feeling, a sinking one at that, that this girl would be scary no matter what.

  
And that’s what he always thought of her as in his teens, a girl. To him, finding her was only a matter of time. In a week, a month, two, there she would be, and she would be perfect and all his and that at least _she_ wouldn’t laugh at the placement of his mark, of her words on him. But then she never came. 17, 18, 19, 20, his birthdays passed and yet he was still alone, still friendless, still loveless. At first he thought something was wrong with him because all around him people would be getting together; all around him people were finding their best friends who would never leave.

  
Maybe he had a lot of anger in him, too, towards the person who would say such a short thing to him. On lonely nights he would look up at the stars and direct his anger towards them, venting because he knew he had no say in what his Soulmate would tell him, but he just _wished_ sometimes; _wished_ for something more than those six words that stared back at him every time he looked at his reflection. _‘Could this be all that I get?’_ he would think in the moments where his anger would dissipate and he was left with a sudden bout of clinginess. He wanted to _cling_ to something, someone, wanted to have that something that everyone else seemed to have. Archery was a lone sport, you stood alone and you alone were responsible for the arrows course. Maybe that was it, maybe he wanted someone to take over for him, to take charge and _lead, **god**_ he was so tired of directing his own life. And maybe that’s what made him join S.H.I.E.L.D when they offered the opportunity, finally he didn’t have to think all for himself, finally _someone_ was there for him, if distantly.

  
\--

  
When he started his bow and arrow act in the Circus, when he was still improving his aim, he used to stroke the words on his right cheek when he drew the bow back. It helped him to remain steady, to keep a clear mind, to breath in deep, find the target and release. This was the only time he felt relieved that nothing could scratch out the words, nothing could erase them from his skin, because the string would cut his cheek, his nail would accidentally catch skin as he drew back too quickly. Drawing his bow was the only time he felt close to the person he would spend the rest of his life with. ( _And if Nat smiles faintly whenever she sees him stroking the words whenever he draws the string to his ear, well, maybe he does it twice more on accident and maybe he doesn’t._ )  
  
  
He supposed his laid-back persona came from the fact that he had given up hope of ever finding her, the one who would make him whole. As a young boy that was all anyone ever talked about around him all, so his expectations were raised every time he looked at his reflection. It didn’t really hit home for him until S.H.I.E.L.D came knocking, that he hadn’t found her and was likely to never do so. It wasn’t like he spent his every waking moment searching for her, but it felt like he did when he looked back on his life. He could have turned bitter, could have ended up like Fury, with so much hate in him that he was guarded with everyone. He could have even turned like Coulson, playing off his insecurity with wit and a cool demeanor. And yet he turned into the person he was now, not giving two shits and playing dumb. He could also chalk his attitude up to his new found patience, which, admittedly, could get threadbare in some places, but he didn’t really like to dwell on his good points, save all this reflection on improvement.

  
\--

  
When they argued they were electric. He knows that it's weird to think that, but boy were they ever a tornado funnel just waiting to touch down. They didn't fight often, mainly because they were too alike in the oddest ways, but when they did, Clint always lost his cool. It didn't matter if they were fighting about whether it was raining or not, Clint just couldn't take the fighting. Not because they were fighting per se, but because Nat would get this look in her eyes that just broke his heart.

  
It was a look of childlike fear, as if she were afraid she was going to loose him if she fought back hard enough. As if he was going to leave for being in the wrong about something. And that just made him clench his teeth with fury. He was angry that she didn't get her childhood, that she didn't know of a kind love, the one where you don't really know exactly _why_ you love a person, you just do. It sent him into a rage every time he saw her gorgeous eyes turn from that smug security into something he really couldn't describe. It was a certain vulnerability that he was uncomfortable with- something he was sure she would share.

  
He supposed the anger was really a cover for his sadness, but he would never go as far to say that it was pity, he knew better than to pity Natasha Romanova. And, truthfully, it wasn't pity, not really, just an aching sadness, one that never went away, flaring up whenever her eyes flashed.

  
He remembers one fight in particular. Where she yelled that he had no idea the kind of monster she was, _"the kind of monster I still feel I am!"_ and in truth, he did not know the extent of her past sins. That's when it hit him that she thought about every kill she gave and every hit she received. That she was not quite the heartless killer her reputation made her out to be. 

  
He remembers how close she was to crying, her eyes misting as she shouted obscenities at herself as if she were looking in a mirror. How she crumpled when he held her as she regained her composure. How hard she gripped his arms, leaving bruises she would later apologize for to which he refused to accept because it didn't matter to him if she hurt him sometimes. As long as she came back to him, as long as she loved him back, she was free, she was her own person as long as she wanted to be. And when he told Nat this, she finally understood what he was trying to do. Not cover up the past or bury it, but to accept her here and now _despite_ it.

  
  
[ _"You are not some creature to be shoved into a cage, to be beaten every time it's done something bad. You are allowed mistakes, to slip up, to fail. Fight back for yourself as you do for others. Stand as tall as you like, and if you want to get higher, I'll give you my shoulders to stand on. Always."_ ]


End file.
